Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(57)

“Oh, I won’t be ringside for anything. He said he might retire.”

Tasha lifted a perfectly penciled eyebrow. “You believe he will? And could you hang with him if he didn’t? You didn’t like watching Tommy’s fights even before disaster struck.”

“I know.” A miserable weight descended on her at the mere thought. “Honestly, I don’t know if he’s retiring or not. He doesn’t seem to know if he’s retiring or not.”

Now both eyebrows raised. “Um, I think you’d better get that straight before you go alienating your entire family over him, Sav. I mean, come on. If you have a phobia about the guy’s occupation it probably isn’t going to sit well with him. He’ll want you there, you know.”

“It scares me,” she admitted. God, that was understatement. It f*cking terrified her. She tried to imagine her life, sitting at home or wherever, knowing he was in the cage and one wrong move might spell his doom. Maybe she was being overly dramatic. But when you’d seen it once already . . .

Later that night, wearing her pajamas and drinking her chamomile tea, she found herself in front of YouTube again. Instead of watching the fight that had sealed all their fates, though, she pulled up some of Mike’s older ones. The short brawl a couple of years ago where he knocked out Caruthers in forty-two seconds. The one his fan had brought up in the elevator—making Santoya tap out with an arm bar in the third round. A loss to Frank Meyers three years ago that went the distance, decided by split decision.

Oh, God, the look on Mike’s face when that announcement was made. Subtle to the outsider, perhaps, but she saw the devastation bite deep as his head dropped and wanted to reach through the screen and grab him. But then his team descended on him and she couldn’t see anything except Meyers gloating for the crowd and the camera. What an *. From what she’d seen, Mike was always gracious after his victories, hugging it out with his opponents. And Meyers was the heavyweight champion now, last she heard.

Her phone blaring to life next to her laptop made her jump, but the name on the display made her smile. “Hey you,” she said warmly, closing out her web browser and shutting the computer down.

“Hey, beautiful. Have a good day?” His voice made her feel like she’d just taken a shot of whiskey—flushed and weak and a little floaty.

“Pretty good. How about you?”

“Grueling. Jon was riding my ass hard today.”

She bit her tongue on the naughty comment that wanted to tumble from her lips. At least get the chitchat out of the way first, horndog. It was all his fault, though; he’d made her this way.

“Do you pretty much spend all day at the gym? Like that’s your day at the office?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. That’s my office.”

“What did you do today?”

“Grappling, mostly. He’s on my ass about my eating. I’ve been bad.”

“Oh? I can’t imagine,” she teased, thinking about their feast at Spindletop—something that was never far from her mind, actually. “Am I a bad influence?”

“On the contrary. I’ve been better this past week than I have in two months.”

“And that’s because of me?”

“You’re putting me back together, babe.”

That was wonderful, and that made her happy—but why was it when he was getting put back together, she only felt like she was falling apart? And if he was getting his focus back . . . it was only a matter of time before he wanted to get back in the cage.

“Training was hard for a while,” he went on, “and it still is, but I’m dealing with it better. I would reach for my drive before and it just wasn’t there. I would see your brother standing in front of me. I would see all the other times I failed or f*cked up.”

Savannah bit her lip, her fingers squeezing the phone until they ached. “I was watching some of your past fights earlier,” she confessed, without really knowing why.

“Really? How come?”

“Well, to see you, for one thing.” Yeah, that was part of it. Mike clinching his opponent in all his shredded glory was a sight to behold, muscles straining, mouth guard bared as he gritted his teeth . . . and even while he was on his feet, the predatory grace with which he moved was something she’d never seen in all the matches she’d watched her brother compete in. He reminded her of a sleek, stalking jungle cat, icy blue eyes calculating, assessing, seeking his opportunity to strike and taking it with devastating precision. When he did . . .

She’d seen firsthand how disastrous that could be.

“Hell, we can FaceTime or Skype. You don’t have to do that to see me.” They’d already been doing that most nights; in fact, she was surprised to get a simple call. “Which ones did you watch?”

“Santoya and Caruthers.” She cringed a little. “Meyers.”

“Yeah,” he said, and she heard the gravely strain in his tone. “First or second?”

“Oh, you’ve fought him more than once?”

“Yeah. Ended the same way both times. Fucker is the thorn in my side. You know, some guys . . . they just have your number. I’ve easily beaten guys who’ve kicked his ass all over the cage, but he gives me hell every time.”

“That must be frustrating.”